The Girl Who Stopped Swimming - By Joshilyn Jackson Page 0,41

order the tickets if it was okay to bring her kid.

“It’s Ibsen. Of course bring Shelby. She should probably get school credit,” Thalia had said. After a small pause, she’d added, “I’m glad you’re coming to this one, Bug.”

Laurel had taken that to be an acceptance of terms, an indication that Thalia wanted peace, too. All Laurel had to do was bring David around, and things could at last return to queasy normal.

Then she actually saw the play. Most if it, anyway.

Sitting in the dark, watching the story unfold, she’d begun to wonder if Thalia hadn’t meant she was pleased Laurel was coming to this play specifically. It seemed like Ibsen had written each scene to spit in Laurel’s soup. It was mostly about how dreadful and unfulfilling it was to be a wife and mother. Thalia’s character, Nora, was more her husband’s mindless little pet than a person.

Laurel kept her temper, even when Nora began chewing at the side of her thumb exactly the way Laurel used to as a kid. She kept her seat when Nora told her servant, who was mending a dress, to leave the room so her husband wouldn’t have to be offended by the mundane sight of a woman sewing.

That dig was so direct, Laurel couldn’t help but wonder if Thalia had added the line. It was Thalia, after all, who gleefully referred to her sister as a “sewer,” pronouncing it as if it rhymed with “truer.”

But Laurel took a deep cleansing breath and whispered, “Peace. Make peace” to herself on the exhale. This was nothing new. Thalia always needed to get in a last little prang. Laurel stayed right up until Thalia showed her butt.

During the scene where Gary-as-Torvald was giving Nora a patronizing dance lesson, Thalia began to spin out of control. Torvald protested, but her dancing became even wilder and stranger, until she finally flung her dress over her head, ripped off her underpants, and began using the old fireman’s pole in a manner Laurel didn’t think the firemen—or Ibsen, for that matter—had intended.

She’d let Shelby watch Thalia channel a hateful parody of her mother, and now Thalia’s bare buttocks, gyrating suggestively, were practically churning in a primal and thrusty sort of way at both Gary and the audience. Laurel had jerked Shelby up by the arm and marched her right up the aisle to the door. Shelby had craned back around as they went, her mouth a wide O, and Laurel had manually turned her head to face front. She’d let the door bang as loud as she could on the way out.

In the lobby, Shelby had said in an outraged whisper, “I want to know how it ends!”

Laurel had replied much louder, “Then you can read it. But you’ll be reading it without the naked part, because that was strictly your aunt Thalia’s interpretation.”

“That doesn’t really happen?” Shelby had asked.

Laurel had shaken her head, pulling Shelby along through the lobby. “I’ll get you the book.”

Shelby had muttered, “Forget it. It was boring till the naked part anyway,” then sulked all the way home. Laurel had added a long drive with a hyperdramatic, palpably suffering preteen to Thalia’s considerable tab, and she hadn’t tried to make peace since.

Now Laurel glanced at the marquee. It was an old freestanding, changeable sign, the kind churches used to spell out messages like God Answers Knee-mail and The Best Vitamin for a Christian is B1. Calling it a marquee was more of a courtesy. Right now it said Next Exit, a Play by Allen Mallory and listed the dates of the run. The play had closed last week, ending their summer season. They were on hiatus until September.

Laurel said, “Bet, I’m going to need to talk with my sister alone, with no mice ears. She’s mad, I’m mad, and in the making up, there might be some language you don’t need to hear.” Bet looked slightly incredulous, and Laurel realized she was doing it again—forgetting where Bet came from. “It’s personal. Sister stuff. They’ve got some good magazines in the lobby, and I won’t be long. You can bring in Shelby’s iPod.”

Bet reached for the door handle, but Laurel put a hand on her arm, stopping her. She sat for another scant minute, gathering herself. For about the thousandth time in her life, she needed Thalia’s boldness. She tried to make her skin feel thick. She tried to make her heart beat slow and steady.

“Okay,” she said, and opened her door. They got out